


Forgive me, Forgive me not

by Aggie2011



Series: Darkness to Dawn Universe [13]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 15:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: Charon was dead. Aramis killed him. While struggling to come to terms with these two realities, Porthos lets his grief blind him. But when Aramis goes missing, Porthos learns to see things a bit more clearly. Tag to 1x05 "The Homecoming". *Darkness to Dawn Universe*





	Forgive me, Forgive me not

 

 

 

_All the usual disclaimers apply *insert eyeroll emoji*_

_So I wrote this a few months ago for a Fete des Mousquetaires challenge and didn't get it done in time lol. Story of my life the last year haha. Well, it's done now!_

_This is a direct tag to Season 1, Episode 5 The Homecoming. Something about the look Porthos gave Aramis after he killed Charon never sat right with me, and so this is what came of that. If you know me at all, you know that means angst ;)_

_Beta'd by my girl_   **Arlothia!**

Enjoy!

* * *

_It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.  
_ **William Blake**

* * *

It was only after Athos had guided Roger a few paces away that he realized Porthos was without a horse and would be left to walk if one of them didn't share a horse with him. He turned to Aramis, intent to suggest just that, but the marksman had already turned Esmé back. With a furrow of concern between his brows, Aramis was watching Porthos approach them.

"Might have brought an extra horse, you know," Porthos huffed. "Unless you weren't plannin' for success in my rescue."

Athos felt his own brows pull together at the thread of irritation in Porthos' voice. The large smile from a moment ago was already gone, faded away without a trace. In its place was a worrying aura of grief, weariness and anger.

"Success was the only acceptable outcome," Athos assured. "But you can survive riding double for the distance to the Garrison." He gave Aramis a nod.

Immediately, the marksman shifted forward in his saddle, offering an arm for Porthos to grab and pull himself up. Athos started Roger forward again, thinking the matter settled.

"Give me a hand, whelp. And slide forward. I'll ride with you."

Athos' head snapped back around, eyes widening in surprise. He looked first at Porthos, busily mounting up behind d'Artagnan. Then he shifted his gaze to Aramis.

The marksman was slowly retracting his arm, shock and open hurt painted across his face. But then his expression shifted and smoothed. He leaned forward, patting Esmé's neck as if that had been his intent all along.

"Esmé's back thanks you for the sacrifice, d'Artagnan," he announced playfully, an easy smile pulling at his lips. But his gaze cut away before Athos could meet it and something in his dark eyes was suspiciously bright as he fidgeted with his hat, pulling it lower over his gaze.

Athos looked again at the pair on the third horse. d'Artagnan swallowed awkwardly, eyes drifting over to Aramis, who had already started Esmé forward. Porthos very pointedly kept his own gaze averted and distant.

Athos had worried that the death of Charon might become a weight Porthos would carry. He only hoped their brother allowed them to help him bear it.

* * *

The ride back was quiet and the silence around them heavy. Aramis, usually the one needing to be threatened into silence, remained reserved in his saddle and Porthos' gaze remained distant. Only d'Artagnan seemed willing to acknowledge any sort of concern with the situation. He met Athos' eyes a half a dozen times, expression worried. But Athos held his peace as well.

They dismounted in the yard and Aramis immediately stepped towards Porthos, sweeping his hat off his head, apparently having spent his silence in preparation for this moment.

"Porthos..." he began earnestly. But Porthos cut him off.

"I'm tired. I'm goin' to bed."

Then the larger man simply walked away. Athos watched Aramis stare after him, mouth hanging open with words unsaid. The marksman stepped forward, as if to follow Porthos' retreat, but Athos caught his shoulder.

"Perhaps some space," he suggested mildly.

Aramis only fleetingly looked at him before nodding tightly. His hat, removed in preparation to speak with Porthos, found its way firmly back to his head. The boy that tended the stable, Pierre, reached for Esmé's reigns, but Aramis pulled them away.

"I'll see to her," he insisted, not unkindly. But something in his tone gave Athos pause.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned simply.

His brother met his eyes and Athos saw a familiar weight there – the weight of a life taken by his hand. Made worse, this time, because of what it meant to Porthos.

"You did no more than what was necessary to protect him," Athos stated firmly. "He will see that in time."

Aramis grimaced and looked away. He cleared his throat after a moment and when he met Athos' gaze again, his eyes were clear.

"Don't look for me tonight. I'll sleep in the stable with Esmé."

"Surely you don't need to do that!" d'Artagnan jumped in.

"Athos is right. The best thing I can do for Porthos now is stay away," Aramis explained calmly.

Athos frowned.

"That's not exactly what I meant."

"But it's true. I would only upset him by coming up there. I'll sleep in the stable," he reiterated firmly. Then he led Esmé in that direction without another word, jaw set in a hard line and head down so that his hat shadowed his features.

"Well this is quite a mess," d'Artagnan announced after Pierre had taken their horses and followed after Aramis. "I've never seen Porthos treat him like that. And sleeping in the stable? Really?!"

"Porthos lost someone who was dear to him. His heart is mourning, even if he can't yet admit it," Athos pointed out calmly.

"And Aramis?"

Athos sighed.

"Aramis would forgive Porthos for anything. And he understands the weight of such loss far too well."

D'Artagnan grimaced.

"Marsac…" he realized quietly.

Athos sighed and nodded, looking towards the stable door. Had into only been a few weeks since Marsac's return and then death? It felt so much longer sometimes.

"Marsac," he agreed softly. "And twenty others. They'll sort themselves out. We just need to give them time."

Reluctantly, d'Artagnan nodded.

* * *

Porthos rose early, an hour before the sun would deign to shine. He'd slept fitfully, reliving that moment over and over in restless dreams. He sat up in his bed and sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

Unable to avoid it any longer, he looked across the room to Aramis' bed.

But he found it empty.

Porthos frowned and looked next to Athos' bed. It was the one normally empty since Athos had secured lodgings in the city. However, today Athos sat with his back to the wall with a bottle of wine cradled in his lap. He didn't look like he'd slept.

"Where is he?" Porthos asked, jerking his chin towards Aramis' bed.

"Slept in the stable." Athos replied.

Porthos felt a twinge of guilt as he recalled his cool rebuff of Aramis' attempt to talk to him the night before. But the swiftly following memory of the weight of Charon dying in his arms quickly stamped it out.

"You should go speak to him," Athos suggested. "Settle things between you."

Porthos set his jaw and nodded.

He had a thing or two he wanted to say to the marksman anyway.

* * *

It was still dark when Porthos made his way into the stable. He paused briefly by Fort's stall to greet him, listening silently for sound in Esmé's stall next to it.

The softly whispered, familiar lilts of Spanish rising from the near silence told him that Aramis was not only there, but awake.

For a moment, Porthos just listened. He had always enjoyed listening to the Spanish roll from Aramis' lips, even if he understood little of it. Something about the tone of the man's voice, and the way the language flowed from him was inexplicably soothing. It was no wonder Esmé responded so well to it. Tonight, Aramis sounded sad, a weight to his words that Porthos rarely heard from the usually cheerful and optimistic man.

Porthos found his anger suddenly renewed. What right did Aramis have to be upset? It wasn't  _his_ friend who had been killed.

Without any further hesitation, Porthos stepped around the edge of the stall and let himself be seen.

"I thought you might be intending to lurk there indefinitely," Aramis said immediately, not looking up from where he stood with his back to Porthos. Esmé's head was hooked over his shoulder and Aramis had wearily rested his own against her neck while his hands gently combed through her mane. His hat was resting neatly on a small stool against the wall, leaving his hair to flow in its normal wild waves.

Porthos settled for glaring at the back of Aramis' head in charged silence.

Something in the marksman's posture wilted. But then, as he so often did, Aramis straightened his back, drew back his shoulders and turned to face Porthos head on. He never had been one to shy away from confrontation.

With one last stroke of Esmé's nose, he slid out of her stall and lifted his chin defiantly as he waited for Porthos to speak.

In the end, Porthos did what he did best – went for blunt.

"You killed Charon."

Aramis' gaze searched his for a moment before he dipped his chin in agreement.

"I did."

Porthos shook his head in disbelief.

"Not even a hint of remorse? You took a life, Aramis. Doesn't that make you feel anything?" he demanded, voice rising with each word.

"I am sorry his life was ended. But I'm not sorry I ended it and I would do it again."

Fury ignited in Porthos' heart at the frank answer. He snatched at Aramis' collar, shoving him backward until he collided with the support post between the stalls. Aramis didn't flinch or try to fight him off. He just took it with a steady expression. Somehow, it just angered Porthos all the more.

"What's wrong with you?" Porthos spat angrily. "Does taking a life mean so little to you?"

"On the contrary, it means a great deal," Aramis countered calmly. But the tightness of his expression gave away how hard he was working to keep his own temper in check.

"Your actions tell a different story!" Porthos snapped. "But then, you've always been this way, haven't you? Violence is always your first resort."

"I will do what I must, no matter the cost."

"You didn't even hesitate!"

"Of course, I didn't hesitate! He was going to kill you!" Aramis snapped, a bit of fire lighting his gaze.

"You don't know that!"

Aramis shoved him away, fury burning bright in his eyes, and threw up his hands in exasperation.

"You saw the knife, Porthos! What would you have had me do? Let him put it in your back?"

"He was like my brother!"

"And you are mine! I will always do whatever it takes to protect you or anyone I consider the same!"

Porthos shook his head again, hot, angry tears gathered in his eyes. Across from him, Aramis' neck was flushed with the heat of his own temper. Something cruel and vindictive sprung to life in Porthos' heart and his next words flowed unchecked.

"And what was Marsac then?"

Aramis flinched as if he'd been struck. That whole mess likely still far too fresh in his mind. Aramis had taken the situation hard and it had taken them quite some time to bring him back to his old self.

"He was my brother, too, but he was lost to me. He would have killed Treville." The words sounding practiced, recited, as if he'd said them to himself many times. "I would do it again if I had to. I would hate it, but I would do it," he added firmly. Then he looked up at Porthos, eyes hard. "I won't apologize, Porthos," he stated. "I won't ask your forgiveness. And I would kill Charon again  _without hesitation._ "

"Then you really are your father's son," Porthos accused acidly, taking a certain satisfaction in the horror that sliced through Aramis' gaze. But the stinging hurt that followed after it pulled sharply at Porthos' raging heart.

Aramis retreated a step, gaze dropping. Porthos thought he should have felt a bit proud in that moment, for very few in the world could make Aramis give ground.

Part of Porthos wanted immediately to take it back. Part of him was furious with himself for calling out Aramis' single greatest fear and using it against him. But a larger part still felt the weight of Charon's body in his arms and felt vindictive, angry victory instead.

So when Aramis slipped into Esmé's stall to retrieve his hat, Porthos remained silent.

"I've got first duty at the palace," Aramis announced as he stepped back out. "I should go."

Porthos didn't try to stop him as he walked away.

Athos opened the stable door when Aramis was still a few steps away from it.

"Aramis?" the swordsman called in wary concern as the marksman stalked towards him.

But Aramis didn't speak to him, just slipped past him without making eye contact and disappeared outside.

Athos stepped fully into the barn and glared across the space at Porthos.

"What did you say to him?"

Porthos shifted his gaze away guiltily.

"When I said to talk to him, I meant to make peace," Athos pointed out as he moved closer.

"There will be no peace in this," Porthos denied sourly.

Athos' eyes ignited in anger.

"You're grieving," he pointed out sharply. "You lost a dear friend. But you  _will_  lose another if you're not careful."

"Doesn't he frustrate you?!" Porthos exploded suddenly. "How easy it is for him to kill? The way it's always his first instinct?! It betrays everything it is to be a Musketeer!"

Something like fury rolled across Athos' usually placid expression.

"If that is what you believe, then you have truly let your grief blind you. You think he doesn't feel the weight of every life he takes? He bears them  _all_ , Porthos, you  _know_  that! That man," he gestured back to where Aramis had gone, "would die for you. And even more, he would  _kill_  for you. Just as any of us would and  _have._  Charon would have put that knife in your back and it was Aramis' instinct you suddenly abhor so much that stopped him. He saved your life, Porthos!  _Charon_  is the one who betrayed you, not Aramis. And right now,  _you_  are the one betraying  _him._ "

Porthos sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the sting of the words as clearly as if Athos had slapped him.

"What would you have done? Had it been Aramis' back Charon was aiming for?" Athos challenged quietly.

The answer came to Porthos immediately and clearly.

He would save Aramis. Of course he would. Because it was  _Aramis_. And Charon – no matter how close they'd been as children – simply didn't compare. And that was likely Athos' point.

He couldn't hold Athos' gaze with that truth weighing on him, so he looked away. But Athos wasn't done.

"What would  _any_ of us do if put in such a position? What would you do now, if you saw Julien d'Herblay again?" he went on ruthlessly.

That answer came easily, too.

"You know what I would do," he replied lowly.

He would kill the bastard, just as he'd promised when they'd parted ways from the man all those years ago.

"Even though he's Aramis' father? Even though Aramis wouldn't  _want_  you to?"

Porthos closed his eyes and blew out a breath. His answer, as Athos surely knew, hadn't changed.

"You've made your point."

"Good," Athos asserted. Then more quietly, "Your grief will fade in time, Porthos. And when it does, you will see things more clearly."

"And until then?" Porthos wondered. Because however true Athos' words were, he still felt so angry. Angry at Aramis. Angry at Charon. Angry at the entire situation.

"Simply be thankful that our brother will always be far more forgiving than either of us could ever deserve."

* * *

He should have brought Esmé.

At this rate he would most certainly be late in arriving at the palace to relieve the Musketeer currently on duty. He should have taken the time to saddle Esmé instead of retreating as hastily as possible.

The sting of Porthos' words had burned hot, though. And all Aramis had wanted was to get away, to hide the effect the accusation had brought about.

" _Then you really are your father's son."_

Even now, something tightened his throat and heat burned at his eyes.

He hated his father.  _Hated him_. This was a truth Porthos knew well. A truth Porthos shared. How many times had he spoken of his fear that his father's influence ran too deep? How many times had he whispered the fear that he was too much like him. How many times had Porthos furiously denied such a thing to be true?

But what weight could those affirmations carry when today he'd declared the opposite?

" _Then you really are your father's son._ "

He knew Porthos was grieving. He knew the words had been spoken in the heat of the moment and colored by sorrow and anger. But that knowledge didn't blunt the sting of them.

Aramis rounded a corner, cutting down an alley to save some time. He was halfway down the narrow stretch when a sudden flare of warning raced down his spine. His hand found his pistol as he turned towards the threat his instincts had perceived.

The stock of a musket came swinging and cracked into his forehead without mercy and his world went dark before he hit the ground.

* * *

"Well, if you want a full report, one can be provided," Athos told Treville easily. "I'm simply suggesting that perhaps an  _abbreviated_  version would be best for all involved."

Treville closed his eyes and let out a vaguely annoyed breath.

"Is there anything I absolutely  _need_  to know about it?" he demanded.

Next to Athos, Porthos shrugged dismissively.

"Nothing of great consequence," Athos replied.

Treville looked between them then over at d'Artagnan.

"So there's absolutely no reason why Aramis came to me late last night requesting first duty at the palace?" he asked doubtfully.

The three of them exchanged a telling look but then promptly shook their heads and shrugged.

Treville shook his head, amazed at their audacity, and opened his mouth to demand the truth. But commotion at the gate saved them from his wrath.

"You can't just walk in here!" the Musketeer guarding the gate was complaining.

But the Red Guard Marc Defrain strode past him with nothing more than a dismissive glance.

"Defrain." Treville greeted warily.

"Captain Treville...Musketeers," Marc greeted, a glare he didn't even try to hide burning in his eyes. "I come with a message."

"A bit beneath you, isn't it?" Athos accused with a doubtful glare.

"Yes, quite," Defrain agreed. "But as it happens, the subject matter is also of consequence to me; and given the state of things  _here_  lately, I wanted to be sure it was properly handled."

All four of them bristled at his accusing tone, but Treville held up a hand to prevent the others from responding.

"What's the message?"

"Aramis was due at the palace for duty this morning," Defrain stated.

"What of it?" Athos demanded.

Defrain slid his own icy blue glare over to meet Athos'.

"He never arrived."

Next to Athos, Porthos seemed to stop breathing all together.

Treville's hand suddenly gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

"He was due there an hour ago," the captain pointed out.

"Hence, my presence here," Marc reminded. "Your man on duty refused to leave his post without being relieved, and given the way you lot have handled things concerning Aramis lately, I wanted to be sure this received due attention."

"What is that supposed to mean," Athos demanded lowly.

"I think you know exactly what it means," Defrain hissed back.

Athos' shoulders tensed and something in his face twitched, but otherwise he didn't respond. Treville was well aware of the mess Marsac's return had made of the brotherhood between his 'Inseparables', but he also knew those frayed bonds had been mended.

"We've made our peace with him over that, Marc," Porthos snapped defensively.

Defrain's gaze snapped to Porthos and he opened his mouth to reply.

"Do you know where he is, Defrain?" Treville interjected before he could, hoping to stop his men and the visiting Red Guard from escalating the rising confrontation. With one last glare at Porthos, then an equally sour look at Athos, Marc turned to Treville. D'Artagnan, it seemed, did not merit his scorn or attention.

"There was talk of a disturbance in an ally not far from the palace, one that stretches behind the bread shop. I took a look on my way here and found it empty. There was blood, though, seemed fresh."

Out of the corner of his eye, Treville saw Porthos' face go gray.

"It's a shortcut," the large man stated, voice suddenly strained. "He goes that way when he's on foot to save time."

"Was there any sign he was involved in the the disturbance?" Athos demanded, gaze calm and focused in a way only Athos could achieve.

"I asked around a bit," Defrain explained. "A boy said he saw a Musketeer wearing a blue sash go down that alley this morning."

"That doesn't mean anything," d'Artagnan pointed out carefully.

"No," Treville agreed. "But he's not reported for duty and that's not like him."

"Esmé," Porthos said suddenly, eyes wide and a hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword. "Esmé started throwing a fit earlier. I thought she was just upset with me for…" he trailed off and cleared his throat. "But she always knows when something's wrong."

"Aramis has found trouble, then, as is his talent," Treville surmised.

"But what trouble?" Defrain demanded. "What's gone on here lately?"

Treville watched Athos, d'Artagnan, and Porthos all exchange another silent, but telling look. Porthos looked positively ill.

"I know where he is," the large man revealed quietly.

* * *

Aramis woke with a start, mind snapping to awareness as he instinctively sat up and tried to bring his arms into a defensive position. There was immediate resistance and the familiar bite of rope against the skin of his wrists, which were bound and tied to a rope attached to the wall above him. He blinked rapidly to try and steady his wobbling vision, but before he could manage to force the world to right itself, his stomach twisted.

Hands still trapped somewhere above him, he could only do his best to twist and empty the contents of his stomach on the ground next to him. He coughed, forcing his lungs to draw in slow deep breaths. Finally able to will his stomach back under control, Aramis let his head drop back against the wall and looked up to inspect his wrists. The length of rope binding him had been tied to a section of exposed wooden beam in the wall.

Crude, but an experimental tug proved the method quite effective.

Various sections of the wall had broken or rotted away, allowing random shafts of light to break the musty darkness of the small room he found himself in. It was empty, save for him.

He grimaced when he heard something scurry across the floor.

Empty save for him and a  _rat_.

"Wonderful," he muttered under his breath.

Determined to not just sit and wait for whatever his captor intended to do, Aramis pushed up to his feet.

Too quickly, it turned out.

The world twisted and he found himself abruptly down on one knee. He clenched his eyes shut, breathing slowly through his nose, and fought against the sudden resurgence of nausea. It wasn't as if he had anything left to vomit out anyway.

"Let's try that again," he coached himself after a moment.

He held his ground this time, even if he did end up with his forehead pressed against a half rotted plank on the wall. His head pounded and throbbed, violently scolding him for his daring when he should be keeping still.

When the throbbing faded to a level that suggested he could open his eyes without his head imploding, Aramis visually inspected himself.

Boots?

Gone - along with the knife he kept hidden within the right one.

Doublet?

Also gone, and with it the knife he kept hidden at his back.

Obvious weapons?

Of course,  _gone_.

He still wore his trousers and shirt, which was  _something_  at least.

God knew where his hat had ended up.

He appeared relatively unscathed so far, save for the throbbing headache. That could be a good thing...or a very bad one as perhaps his captor was waiting for him to be  _awake_  to feel the pain of whatever was coming.

He carefully brought his bound hands up to his forehead, dancing his fingers across the jagged cut above his brow. It was no wonder he could barely keep his thoughts in line and that his stomach kept flipping over itself. He hardly tolerated even minor head wounds since Savoy. One as severe as this would likely plague him for days, if not longer.

He closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest against the wall again, and willed away another swell of nausea. Once it passed, he muttered a curse and forced himself to lift his head and look around his small prison again.

There was no immediately obvious method of escape, so he turned his focus to the ropes.

The knot keeping his wrists bound was a good one. He attacked it with his teeth anyway. He'd been at it long enough for his jaw to ache when the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching warned him of an arriving visitor.

He dropped his hands as low as the rope would allow and leaned back casually against the wall, doing his best to appear wholly unconcerned with his situation.

_Never let them see weakness._

_Them_ , of course, being the entire rest of the world. One of his father's many edicts over the years. One of the handful that he had been unable to shake.

He tilted his head casually and painted on an cavalier smirk when the door opened.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he greeted the man who filled the doorway. "I'd offer you a drink, but as you can see…" He held up his bound hands. "I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

He expected the man to say something, to offer an explanation for why Aramis was...wherever he was. But instead, the man walked straight up to him and punched him in the ribs. Hard. Aramis coughed the breath out of his lungs and strained to keep from doubling over.

_Never let them see weakness._

Another blow came before he had properly recovered from the first.

"Now, now," Aramis placated, spitting a glob of blood on the ground. "Surely you would find more satisfaction in beating me if I knew  _why_  you were doing so."

The man snatched a handful of Aramis' hair and pulled his head back to an uncomfortable angle.

"Murderer," the man hissed in his ear.

Aramis realized then exactly where he was and why he'd been taken. The man pulled harder on his hair and kicked at Aramis' knees so they folded and he was kneeling in the dirt, arms stretched awkwardly upward.

"Charon will have his justice."

His head was abruptly released and shoved forward.

"Charon got only that which he deserved," Aramis retorted.

Hands snatched at his shirt and yanked him upwards only to slam him hard enough into the wall to crack a few of the rotting boards.

"The penalty for killing the king is death," the man informed him in a low and threatening voice.

Aramis arched a doubtful eyebrow.

"You do realize Charon was not an  _actual_  king, don't you?"

The man just stared at him, so Aramis did what he did best - he talked.

"In fact, Charon intended to betray you and everyone else in the Court for his own gain," he revealed. "Quite a messy business actually, but we stopped him. Did you know he'd even gone so far as to kidnap another Musketeer? A man who is a brother to me in every way but blood… Though there's been a fair bit of that shared between us over the years. Perhaps you know him? Bear of a man, heart of gold - Porthos is his name."

His captor rammed a fist into Aramis' ribs again and threw him to the ground. His shoulders pulled sharply when the rope around his wrists prevented a complete descent. His captor wasted no time driving his boot into Aramis' side.

Aramis coughed, then covered it with a chuckle.

_Never let them see weakness._

"So you  _do_  know him. He gets that reaction a lot... Must be the bear bit."

"Porthos is a traitor to his kind."

"Is seeking a better life now considered treason?" Aramis shot back, unable to tolerate anyone speaking ill of his brother.

The boot aimed for his ribs again, but Aramis shifted, catching it with his bound hands and shoving the man backwards. He stumbled, but caught himself against the wall.

"Porthos is a better man than you could ever hope to be," Aramis spat, pushing to his feet. "And he means more to me than my own life ever could. Charon was about to kill him so I killed Charon first. Simple as that." He met the man's gaze squarely. "And I would do it again."

As his captor stared at him, Aramis could see the fire of fury building in his eyes. Porthos and Athos were always telling him to learn to keep his mouth shut. He'd never been good at that sort of thing. And he'd likely pay for it now. But he wouldn't cower and beg for mercy before this man any more than he would beg Porthos' forgiveness for an act he did not regret.

The man pushed away from the wall and strode for the door. Aramis quirked a brow warily as the man leaned through the doorway. When he pulled back into the room with a large, thick stick in his hands, Aramis rolled his eyes heavenward and blew out a slow breath.

As the man approached him again, Aramis carefully locked himself down. His father had prepared him for moments like this. He could take pain.

He only had to last until they found him.

* * *

Porthos paced impatiently as they waited in an alley near the entry to the Court.

"How can you be sure he's here?" Marc Defrain asked doubtfully.

"I just know, alright?" Porthos snapped, continuing his agitated prowl.

"Just trust us," d'Artagnan implored diplomatically.

"Trust you?" Defrain repeated incredulously. "Forgive me if I don't trust the men who  _abandoned_ him mere weeks ago and now act as if it was nothing."

"Nobody abandoned him," Athos corrected sharply.

Defrain scoffed his disbelief.

"I'm the one who pulled him out of a street brawl with half a dozen red guards when none of you were anywhere to be found," he reminded harshly. "You can lie to yourselves about it all you like, but I know the truth of it."

"Why are you here again?" d'Artagnan asked, all sense of diplomacy having fled.

"Because I've known Aramis longer than  _any_  of you," Defrain retorted, a thread of emotion sharpening the words. He took a steadying breath, visibly calming himself. "And I'm not going anywhere until he's safe."

Athos said something in return, but Porthos tuned the bickering out. He focused his energy on the entry to the alley, willing Flea to appear. They'd sent word in as soon as they arrived at the Court, but after everything that happened yesterday, he knew they couldn't just barge in and start tearing the place apart.

But if she didn't appear soon, he would do just that.

He would raze the entire Court to the ground if he had to. He wouldn't stop until his brother was found.

Guilt tore at Porthos heart as he paced. The cruel memory of his bitter words circled in his mind as he waited.

_Then you really are your father's son._

If those were the last words he ever spoke to Aramis, he would never forgive himself.

He couldn't fathom how such words had come from his mouth now. He had met Aramis father and there were no two more opposite men in the world. His grief and anger over Charon had woken something cruel and vindictive in him.

But nothing in the world could cool his anger towards Aramis quite like fear  _for_ Aramis.

He would give anything to have his brother back at his side now.

Suddenly Flea was there. She hurried down the alley towards them, towing a young boy behind her.

"I came as quickly as I could," she greeted. "But when I got your message, I thought it best to do some digging first so I had something to give you."

Porthos had never been so grateful for her tenacious practicality.

"This is Matthias." She gently pulled the boy forward.

"How's he supposed to help find Aramis," Defrain demanded impatiently.

"Are you capable of keeping your mouth shut for even a few moments?" Athos snapped.

"Both of you! Stow it!" Porthos bellowed. "You can get back to your feuding later. Now's not the time."

Defrain's jaw twitched with how hard he clenched it closed. Athos drew in a calming breath and then dipped his head in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Porthos turned back to Flea and the boy.

Flea nudged the boy, whose eyes were wide with trepidation as he stared up at Porthos.

"Matthias?" Porthos forced a gentle smile and knelt down to be on eye level with him.

Some of the fear faded from the boy's posture and Porthos smiled a little wider. Aramis was better with children – was a miracle worker in fact – but Porthos had seen him work his magic enough times to have picked up some tricks.

"How old are you, Matthias?" he asked softly.

He sensed Defrain shift impatiently behind him, but thankfully the hot blooded man kept his mouth shut.

"Six and three quarters," Matthias replied quietly.

"Wow, you're nearly grown, aren't you?" Porthos teased with a wink.

Matthias smiled then, a gaping hole where one of his top teeth should be.

"Matthias, my very best friend is lost right now. He's the nicest man you'd ever meet and wears a hat and a blue sash around his waist." Porthos motioned to his own waist. "Do you know something to help me find him?"

The boy bit his lip and looked up at Flea who nodded encouragingly.

"Well...I ain't seen 'im…" the boy explained slowly. Porthos' heart dropped to his boots and behind him he heard muttered curses. "'Least not today."

Porthos' heart started pounding.

"What do you mean? Not today?"

"I seen him yesta'day," Matthias explained. "I saw him kill Charon."

Porthos swallowed thickly and glanced up at Flea for an explanation of how this was helpful.

"And what did you do when you saw, Matthias?" she prodded gently.

"I went and telled my uncle. He's Charon's friend and I knew he was gonna be real sad. I gave him a hug though."

Porthos latched onto that and forced himself not to reach out and physically latch onto the boy.

"That was kind of you, Matthias. What did your Uncle do when you told him?"

"He got real mad," Matthias explained looking down sadly. "I didn' mean to make him mad."

Porthos looked up at Flea again.

"Who's his uncle?"

She raised her brows meaningfully.

"Sean."

"Sean? As in Sean from when we were kids?" Porthos growled.

She nodded.

Porthos cursed and stood, spinning away so the boy wouldn't see the fury on his face. Sean had been a cruel boy with a short temper. Porthos had little hope the man had changed for the better over the years. Athos and d'Artagnan were watching him with alarm in their eyes and even Defrain looked taken aback.

He motioned for them to just  _hold on_  and, covering up the fury with pleasantness, turned back to the boy.

"Matthias, does your uncle have any place he goes to be alone? A secret place maybe?"

Matthias tilted his head thoughtfully and started to shake his head.

Porthos paced away from them. He would have to search the entire Court. That would take hours.

"I took him to  _my_ special place before," Matthias stated suddenly and Porthos whirled.

"Where is your special place?" Flea asked urgently.

"Ain't nobody know about it," Matthias protested.

"We won't tell anyone," d'Artagnan promised sincerely.

Matthias hesitated, then looked back at Porthos skeptically.

Porthos went to his knees in front of the boy again.

"Please, Matthias. I need your help."

A long, weighted moment passed.

Then Matthias nodded.

* * *

Aramis dragged air into his lungs, forehead braced in the crook of his elbow, the rope binding his wrists to the wall just about the only thing holding him up.

Across the small room, his captor was working to catch his own breath for completely different reasons.

"People underestimate…" Aramis commented idly as he spat out a glob of blood, "how taxing it is to swing a club." He coughed and lifted his head, dragging one foot under him, then the other, as he wobbled his way to standing. He held tightly to the rope for balance and watched the man across the room huff and puff with his recent exertion.

"Just...bidin' my time…" the man gasped, face red and covered in sweat.

"The key is aiming for a target with give to it," Aramis explained, eyes studying the man carefully. "Aiming for the head… Sure it has its merits. But if your target is agile, you're likely to miss, which wastes even more energy. As you've discovered." He smirked mockingly. "The back, while easy to hit, is nothing but bone and muscle. Sturdy and built to take a beating well. But the side...that's where the magic lies."

The man was watching him carefully, a contemplative frown turning down his lips.

"The ribs," Aramis gestured at his own side, "break easily.  _Trust me_ , I've broken enough of them. You can inflict real damage without feeling like you're beating against a wall," he finished with a shrug.

He had no idea if his gambit would work. He could only hope the man was dumb enough to go for the bait. He wasn't certain of the legitimacy of any of his claims, but it sounded real enough coming out of his mouth - as many lies often did.

His captor rose up from his hunched position, pushing his hands against his knees where they had been braced, and hefted the stick in his hands.

"The ribs, you say?" he sounded proud of himself, thinking he'd been the one to pull the trick. "You should really learn to keep your mouth shut, Musketeer."

Aramis shifted his feet, preparing, and shrugged. He had to ignore the fierce spasm of pain that ran through his back at the motion, but what were his father's lessons for if not for moments like this?

"It's been said a time or two," he admitted.

The man swung the club towards Aramis' side. Instead of bracing to receive the blow as he'd done up until now, Aramis stepped into it, lifting his arm up and over the club. He absorbed the hit with a grimace and then locked the stick to his side with his arm.

The man tried to pull his weapon free, but Aramis held firm.

"There's a risk to every venture," Aramis commiserate with a smirk.

Then he snapped a forward kick, his bare heel slamming into the man's kneecap and bending the joint backwards. As the man dropped with a howl of pain, Aramis pulled the club from his hands and let it drop harmlessly to the floor. He could have wielded it himself but, despite the circumstances, he had no real desire to kill the man.

Instead, Aramis hooked his bound hands around his captor's neck and hauled him up, the man's back against Aramis' chest. He shifted his arms so his elbow was locked around the man's neck and then he simply held firm, as tightly as he could.

The man panicked immediately, as most do when being suffocated. Elbows slammed into his already bruised and cracked ribs, but Aramis didn't relent.

_Pain is merely weakness. It can and should be overcome._

Hands slapped frantically at his face, clawing at him and opening stinging scratches on his bruised skin. But he held firm.

Finally the struggles slowed...and then stopped. Aramis waited another few moments and then let the man drop, unconscious, to the ground. Threat finally passed, he dropped back against the wall and focused just on breathing - or wheezing as seemed to be the case.

"Well that could have gone worse," he muttered to himself.

He was bruised, had a broken rib or two, and a concussion. All in all, he'd had worse. Worse from his father, even. Of course, he was still trapped. Perhaps his friendly captor had a knife.

"That would be convenient, my friend," he commented to the senseless man.

He started to crouch to investigate, but then realized his hands could only reach so far, bound as they were. He couldn't reach the man's body to search it.

"Wonderful," he muttered, glaring up at where the rope was secured. Then he channeled Porthos at his most eloquent. "Bloody hell."

* * *

Porthos carefully made his way closer to the small, half rotted shack. He could see a small pile of clothing and a familiar hat sitting outside the door. Flea had already spirited Matthias back out of danger. Athos and d'Artagnan were approaching from the opposite side and Defrain was hovering at Porthos shoulder.

Porthos stopped at the prearranged position and waited for Athos and d'Artagnan to get into place. As much as he wanted to rush in, he wouldn't risk Aramis with an ill planned attack. Fighting down his own impatience, he looked back at Defrain.

"I never meant to abandon him, you know," he defended suddenly.

The words had been bothering him since Defrain hissed them earlier. Or perhaps they'd been bothering him since he'd learned that Aramis had killed Marsac all those weeks ago.

Defrain looked up from where he was checking his pistol.

"What you  _meant_ to do and what happened are very different things," Defrain pointed out.

Porthos sighed deeply.

"I know," he admitted.

"You left him alone with that  _bastard_ …"

"I know."

"And after everything,  _he_  had to put Marsac down."

"I  _know_."

"You should have been there!" Defrain hissed. " _One_  of you should have been there!"

"I  _know_  alright!" Porthos hissed back. Constance scolding them with those same words rang clearly in his memory. But Defrain wasn't done.

"He trusts you! He trusts you in a way he has never trusted me and you  _wasted it!"_

"Are you done?" Porthos growled. Athos and d'Artagnan were in position.

Defrain glared at him fiercely but only said two more words.

"Do better."

Porthos felt his heart climb into his throat at the sincere and firm instruction. He and Defrain weren't friends. They tolerated each other for Aramis' sake. But he had never doubted Defrain's loyalty to Aramis. It was gutting to realize that Defrain was the one doubting  _his_.

He met the man's icy blue gaze.

"I will," he swore.

Defrain searched his gaze and then gave him a nod.

Porthos looked back to Athos, who arched a brow curiously. Porthos just shook his head and motioned towards the small shack.

Athos counted them down with his fingers and then the four of them moved.

* * *

Aramis froze at the sound of movement outside his prison. He had been under the impression that his captor was operating on his own. The arrival of comrades was troubling. He reached for the stick with his foot, dragging it closer and then hooking his toes under it. A quick kick up and it flew up to his hands. He raised it up, ready to wield it as a weapon. His range of motion would be limited, but he would adapt.

The door rattled and then burst open. Four men spilled into the small room and Aramis swung his weapon only for it to be caught in a large hand before it made contact with anything vital.

"Easy!" a familiar voice rumbled. "It's me."

Aramis deflated.

"Porthos," he realized with relief. He let Porthos take the stick and then melted back against the wall.

"Who'd you expect?" the larger man teased, hands hovering near Aramis' elbow but not touching.

"I expected him to have had some friends come to join the party," Aramis replied, nodding down at the unconscious man on the ground.

"This doesn't look like a very fun party," d'Artagnan observed.

Aramis chuckled wearily.

"One of my least favorite," he admitted.

Athos stepped up to Aramis' side, pulling his main gauche from its place at his back.

"You seem to have put your own spin on the festivities," the older man commented as he cut the ropes from Aramis' wrists. But despite the light words, his worried eyes inspected Aramis' thoroughly. Whatever he saw left his expression tight.

"You know me," Aramis chuckled, rubbing at his raw, but freed, wrists. "I always like to liven things up." He arched a surprised eyebrow when Marc stepped up to his other side. "Them I expected. You come as a surprise."

"Ungrateful," Marc teased without any heat.

"Very grateful," Aramis corrected warmly reaching a hand towards the Red Guard and gripping his shoulder tightly. "Thank you."

Marc offered him a wink and a smirk and then lightly pat him on the cheek.

"I'm glad you're safe, Aramis. I must return to duty, but I suppose I can trust these three to look after you now." The Red Guard slid a look at Porthos that Aramis didn't understand at all. But before he could ask what it was about, Marc touched a finger to his hat and moved for the door. "Try to stay out of trouble for more than a day or two, would you?" Defrain instructed lightly.

"You know me," Aramis called after him.

Marc's answering laugh floated back on the breeze.

Aramis turned his attention back to the men in the room with him. Athos was still hovering at his side and Porthos was an arms' length away. D'Artagnan was standing over the lightly stirring man on the ground.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked quietly.

Aramis offered him a rueful grin.

"Just bruises," he insisted. Athos' brow arched doubtfully and he caught Aramis' chin in his hand, turning his head to get a good look at the gash above his brow.

"That doesn't look like a bruise."

"I'll feel it for a day or two," Aramis allowed with a shrug.

"Or two," Athos allowed with an affectionate eye roll. "I'm asking Treville to put you on restricted duty for a week."

Aramis gaped at him.

" _¡_ _Un destino peor que la muerte, mi amigo!_ _" (A fate worse than death, my friend!)_

Athos' brow rose.

Aramis scowled, realizing he'd given himself away. There were only a small number of reasons why he would lapse to his mother's language unintentionally, and almost all of them meant some sort of issue with the his health.

"Maybe I just like using other languages every now and then, did you ever consider that?"

Athos just stared at him.

"Fine… Three days, but no longer."

"A week," Athos reiterated firmly. Then, as Aramis squawked in protest, he turned to d'Artagnan. "Let's deal with this one." He motioned at the man blinking blearily on the ground. D'Artagnan leaned down to secure the man and Athos glanced at Porthos, brow arched in question.

Porthos nodded and Aramis rolled his eyes but didn't protest the silent conversation so obviously about who would deal with  _him_.

He remained resting back against the wall, eyes focused on the dirt around Porthos' feet, while he waited for the other two to move his former captor out of the room.

Then he and Porthos were alone.

The larger man let out a slow, deep breath and shifted closer, leaning against the wall next to Aramis. The rotting boards creaked, but held. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder in silence.

"Marc said something to me while we were coming to get you," Porthos said eventually.

"Did he? Marc can be bossy," Aramis commented with a grin.

"He told me to do better," Porthos went on undeterred.

Aramis frowned thoughtfully.

"Alright...I'm intrigued. Do better about what?"

He felt Porthos' gaze on the side of his face.

"You."

Aramis grimaced and looked further away to hide the reaction.

_Never let them see weakness._

"Athos said something to me, too."

"A lot of people said things to you today."

"Yeah, well sometimes it takes a few tries to get through. I'm told I can be bullheaded," Porthos admitted ruefully.

"I hadn't noticed," Aramis teased, but still couldn't bring himself to look over at Porthos. Afraid, perhaps, to see the same bitterness that had been there this morning. Or worse, that he wouldn't see the affection and brotherhood that had been there for so many years.

"Athos asked me what I would have done if it had been  _your_  back Charon came at."

Aramis drew in a slow breath.

"What was your answer?" he asked quietly.

The answering gasp from Porthos finally succeeded in drawing his gaze up from the dirt to regard his brother.

"Do you really need to ask me that?" the larger man demanded, eyes wide and horrified.

Aramis frowned a little.

"Charon meant a lot to you…" he hedged carefully.

"Yes, he did," Porthos allowed. "He was a friend. We had been like family growin' up."

Aramis looked away again, not particularly wanting to hear Porthos verbalize his priority here.

"But 'Mis…" Porthos pushed away from the wall and turned to face Aramis fully, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. The weight sent a fissure of pain through his battered body, but Aramis didn't shrug him off. "You  _are_ my family. You're my brother and it will always be you. I will  _always_  choose you. Forgive me for making you doubt that."

Aramis sighed and met Porthos' gaze.

"Of course I forgive you, Porthos."

"Good. And while you're handing those out… For what I said this morning..."

Aramis shook his head.

"There's no need…"

"There is  _every_  need," Porthos cut in sharply. Then calmer, "I never in my life imagined sayin' such words to you. Can hardly believe now that I did."

"You were upset…"

"That doesn't matter. If those had been my last words to you…" Porthos shook his head, eyes welling.

"But they weren't," Aramis pointed out. "I'm right here."

The hand on Aramis' shoulder tightened.

"Forgive me, _"_ Porthos whispered.

Aramis' own gaze softened.

"Porthos, I forgave you the moment you said it."

Porthos let out a sharp breath of relief and without warning, hauled Aramis away from the wall into a hug. Despite the pain awakened throughout his body, Aramis returned the embrace immediately.

"I don't deserve you," Porthos stated quietly.

"Oh, my dear Porthos, I'm afraid you deserve much better."

The larger man pulled back, keeping a hand on Aramis' shoulder and another on his arm. If he was mostly holding Aramis up, well, he wasn't going to mention it.

"Not possible," the man declared firmly. Then he made a show of looking Aramis up and down. "You look terrible."

"Yes, well, I've had a trying day."

"To say the least."

"You should see the other guy."

"I did. He doesn't look half as bad as you."

"Ah yes, but  _he_ was unconscious. So I win."

Porthos chuckled. "Can you walk?"

"I can  _stand_ ," Aramis replied cheerfully. But they both could clearly tell that Porthos was the one keeping him upright at the moment. "Honestly, I've had my knees locked since I managed to make it to my feet. I don't know what will happen when I try to move."

"I could carry you like a fair damsel."

"I could also hop on one foot, but best we stay away from ridiculous ideas."

Porthos chuckled again and slid up to his injured side, carefully pulling his arm up and guiding it over his own shoulder.

Aramis went rigid, face stony and unwilling to betray the agony such a simple movement caused.

"'Mis?"

"I'm alright," he insisted ridiculously.

_Never let them see weakness._

"You don't have to be," Porthos replied seriously, so much warm sincerity in his tone that Aramis felt his resolve weaken.

"Perhaps a broken rib or two," he admitted.

Porthos immediately lowered Aramis' arm back to his side and wrapped an arm around the back of his waist instead.

"You're supposed to mention that stuff  _before,_ you idiot." Then when Aramis nearly faltered after the first step, Porthos' voice lost all teasing. "I got you, brother. Lean on me."

Aramis made it out of the little shack that had been his prison before his body betrayed him. He heard Porthos curse but never felt his body hit the ground. If Porthos carried him like a 'fair damsel' after that… Well, he was too busy being unconscious to complain.

* * *

_the end_

_So, like I said up top, the way Porthos looked up at Aramis after Charon died...it always stuck with me. It wasn't a look of 'thanks for saving my life' it came across, to me at least, as a 'you killed him'. So I always thought there should have been some fallout between them over it. Just like there SHOULD have been some fallout over the whole Marsac situation, but i'm covering that in another fic ;) No relationship is perfect, I gotta throw some wrenches in the brotherhood every now and then._

_I'm working on some modern AU one shots and also some other au one shots just for fun because I had this firefighter au pop in my head and I can't get it out lol. anyway, drop me a line down below if you enjoyed this!_

_Later gaters!_


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